Iain was the sixth or seventh to approach. The sight of him brought Rhiannon a relief that bordered on bliss. She tried in vain to rise. Crying out his name yielded only static. She felt trapped in a nightmare, the kind where she would try to scream but found she had no voice, and all the while the danger—calmly and with notable relish—would close in upon her, mangling her body with a weapon or forcing something thick and fibrous deep inside her mouth, her cleft.

But dear Iain did no such thing. His assault was something far more insidious.

He wrapped his arms around her momentarily, kissed her oily brow.

In her ear he whispered, “Will we be successful?”

Rhiannon’s reply was instant, confusing, and delivered wholly without her consent.

Never had her mate appeared so pleased.

This would be the only memory of his face that Rhiannon would have to cling to over the next three years, the first of which was spent solely in that horrid folding chair, meeting with an endless procession of guests.

Hyacinth kept the tarpaper on her windows and succoured her new doll with her choicest teas and macrobiotic delicacies. She cleaned her bucket twice daily without complaint and washed her with a loofah sponge soaked in tepid rosewater.

Iain made good on his promise to Hyacinth. He procured for them a handsome and firm stone cottage in the city’s historic district. Gardeners and contractors were hired to see that the house and its humble grounds were kept in good repair. The windows were two-way smoked glass, which assured privacy while not depriving the occupants a view of the elegant street.

Rhiannon was given a chair befitting her at last; a throne-like apparatus of sand-coloured plush and a white lacquered Hepplewhite frame. She was stationed in the bedroom at the top of the stairs (the master bedroom went to Hyacinth). A second chair, comfortable looking but not as regal, was placed before Rhiannon so that her visitants would feel more at ease during consultations.

A year or so later, Iain finally made his return. Though he still managed the books for this little soothsaying enterprise, this was the first time he’d made a pilgrimage to its source.

Rhiannon’s recollection of him was faint, dulled by exhaustion and trauma and time. The young woman who clung to him was wholly unfamiliar to her. The twins who cowered behind Iain had grown immensely during her absence.

“Hello, Rhiannon,” Iain said weakly. Then he turned to the young girl at his side. “Sit,” he bade her. “Ask.” He then instructed the twins to go outside and play.